Till Then My Windows Ache
by pratz
Summary: "Her mouth pushes harder against me and it's like Rachel's belting out inside my head that glorious Freddie Mercury-esque Looooord." An unabashed account of the Quinntana hotel hook-up scene.


**Till Then My Windows Ache**

Author: pratz

Disclaimer: RIB's

Rating: NC-17 (for sex and blasphemous swearing)

A/N: Written after that Quinntana stunt in _I Do_, which I only tolerate because for once Quinn is happy. That's all that matters. And getting into Quinn's head is tough, but I tried my best. And I still can't believe I write a smut.

-.-.-.-.-

_so I wait for you like a lonely house_

_till you will see me again and live in me._

_Till then my windows ache._

(Pablo Neruda, _Sonnet LXV_)

-.-.-.-

It's just a slow dance, Fabray. Just a slow dance.

Santana puts her glass on the counter top, turning to look at me, waiting.

Uhm—okay. So this where you ask your date for a dance? Okay... Well, I think I have to. And she's my date so she won't say no, right? Right? Jesus, why is this such a dilemma? Oh wait—forgive me, Lord. I'll be swearing in your holy name a lot tonight.

In the end, I find myself ask the question, "Dance with me?"

A small smile plays on her lips, but she takes my hand and curls her fingers around mine.

Rachel and Finn take the stage and sing their rendition of _We've Got Tonight_. I can only sigh. I know the way he looks at her, and I too know the way she looks at him. After all, I spent the last four years to observe. The way her eyelids flicker. The way the corners of her mouth twitch as if being unsure of whether to smile or not. The way she draws a breath, and another, and another. I'm familiar with all of them. Too familiar, even. Boy, do I excel in my observation.

We are swaying, and I don't mean to but my eyes catch Rachel's for a moment and I freeze, struck yet again by the vehement force that has been front-center in my life for the last four years. By another moment in Rachel's gravity. By the one person who will turn me into a pillar of salt once I dare to really look.

Please. Don't. I can't.

Not now.

Then Santana's arm tightens around my shoulders, calling me, asking me not to look anywhere.

Anywhere but at her.

Oh.

So I pull back, ready to answer her call. Inhale. "I've never slow danced with a girl before," I say, watching Santana's face, looking at the flicker of doubt and hesitation and expectation in her eyes. (I've never really looked at her eyes before. What kind of a wonderful friend you are, Fabray.) Exhale. Rachel's voice is soft in the background. (Since when it is in the background, I wonder.) Inhale.

Here it goes.

"I like it."

I watch the sun burn in Santana's eyes, the heat of summer now the warmth of fall, and my heart never sings any louder as the corners of Santana's lips are pulled upward. The way it should be. The way it _is_.

Santana goes back in, and good God does it make me want to see my own smile now.

"You're a sap, you know that, Q?"

I laugh a little. "You're not the first person to tell me that."

She butts her temple against my cheek. "Mm-hm. Do that again."

"What?"

"Laugh." Then, in a much softer voice, she says, "I like it when you laugh."

So that's what I do: laughing. All the way from the ballroom to our—I've never realized it until now—room. And even harder when Santana trips herself, only a second away from crashing face-first onto the door across their room. And again as I launch myself at her, almost in would-be painful coalition.

"Oops?"

"Coordination status: fail." Santana pushes herself away from the door. "Hurry the key, Q."

I swipe the card. The green light flashes. The door opens.

"We've got tonight," I whisper, but it is more of a question than a statement.

She tilts her head, laughing. "Who needs tomorrow?"

Thank God for whoever places the bed so close to the door.

"You know what makes a dress fabulous?"

"Mm?"

"When you look good in it." A kiss on my now bare shoulder (when does she strips me, I wonder). "And when you look even better out of it."

I turn around, and my fingers inch to relieve Santana's dress off of her. "And you called me a sap."

Placing a kiss on my collarbone, Santana chuckles and pushes me to lie on my back. "Up." My dress now pools on my waist, and Santana slips an arm around my waist to lift me and get rid of the dress. "And up." The fabric slides against my thighs, and I can't help but shuddering. "And up."

"San?"

Santana raises her eyes to meet mine.

I swallow. Once. Twice. I can even feel the tinge of red that spreads traitorously on my cheeks. Pale complexion, someday you'll be the death of me, really. "Shouldn't we kiss first?"

Of all the things I could have said!

Surprisingly, Santana doesn't laugh at me. "Not necessarily." She shrugs, causing her dress to slide even lower to her midsection. "Do you want to?"

And my face decides that it's a good time to perform The Patented Fabray Eyebrow Arch.

"Fuck you, Fabray. Honest-to-God fuck you." And Santana has the nerves to poke me. On my side. Where I am most ticklish! "Are you serious?"

"How am I supposed to know if it's okay to kiss you or not?" Scurrying to the head of the bed, I let go of the last shred of dignity I have by huffing out. Better lay it out and all. "Fuck me, Lopez. Honest-to-God fuck me."

The last thing I hope to see is to have Santana release a full-blown laughter so, so hard she's shaking against my side.

"Hey!"

"Ouch! Sorry! Stop kicking me! I'm sorry," Santana gasps out, still laughing. "Who would have thought," she breathes, "you'd ask me to—to—" And she's back on laughing again.

I fold my arms across my chest. I can't let her see this, can I? Not after she laughs like that. But what do I expect? This is Santana Lopez, straight-up bitch and playgirl extraordinaire who will pull a stunt of being Penelope Cruz's relative believable. Of course she'll laugh at my (lesbian) inexperience.

Eventually, Santana's laugh fades to a smile. She reaches to touch my arms, slowly pulling them away from my chest. "Don't do that."

Oh now you want to see my boobs? Not a chance, Lopez. "And have you laugh at me? No, thanks."

"I'm not laughing because you ask for a kiss. It's just—well, this is gonna be cliché and all—but you're so not the Quinn Fabray I know."

Another Patented Fabray Eyebrow Arch.

"Look. You're different today. I mean, look at you. You've just sworn for the first time in years I know you. Got it? And that's not the only thing."

"So you realize I've been hitting on you?"

"Jesus," she groans onto her palm. "That, too."

"Good." It's my turn now to take Santana's hand away. No cover. She doesn't need that now. _We_ don't need that now. "So shut up and kiss me, Lopez."

"You and your sweet mouth," Santana grunts.

"Want to prove it?"

She blinks, so I close my eyes and brace myself. Wait, wait agonizingly for the moment to come, be it either rejection or respond. Hold my breath.

And—here it is.

Good Lord in heaven above. Lips first, lips foremost, lips everywhere. Where have you been all this time, Santana's lips? Why aren't you in my life any sooner? Wait—what—no, get back here!

I am breathless when I open my eyes.

Santana has pulled back a little, smirking, still not releasing my hands. "Proven," she says, "and passed the quality control with flying colors."

I groan and yank her back.

Do you know what's the most awesome part about enjoyable kissing? Your partner. The one who makes you forgive the nose bumping that makes even the most experienced kissers stupid. Forgive the otherwise-would-be-unforgivable blow-into-your-face breathing. And most definitely forgive the silly mistake of harmony that makes you tilt your head in the same direction your kissing partner tilts hers.

Now, now. What is air? Who needs it when she nuzzles my neck, presses her lips to my chin, then laves at my throat? And holy mother of God and all the angels above, aren't we both supposed to be drunk? Aren't we?

But... to hell with it.

She draws my bottom lip into her mouth, flicking it with her tongue. One of her hands is now on my nape.

"Q?"

Her voice is gentle, her lips are so close that I can feel every contour as they move, and I want her more, more than ever.

"Yeah."

And her tongue passes my lips. And her tongue is in my mouth. Her tongue. Is in my mouth. Lord Jesus.

She breathes more deeply, exhaling inside my mouth. Her tongue curls under mine, inviting me to explore her mouth, and who am I to refuse? One does not simply resist Santana Lopez. Oh, and I think I might have died and see my Lord Jesus and he's reprimanding me for not finishing my life mission on earth and sending me back because—_oh_. Oh sweet, sweet mouth! I am Neruda, craving for her sweet mouth! I am Cummings, craving for her sweet mouth! I am every lover in the past, future, and present, craving for her sweet, sweet mouth!

Her fingers run through the baby hair on my nape. She presses herself harder against me. Chest to chest, hip to hip, groin to groin. Her other hand is on my cheek, her thumb pressing against my chin to bring it down. _Open up_, it says. And open up I do. And oh fuuuck the way she grinds against me, the way one of her legs slips between mine, the way the hand on my face leaves and trails down to settle on my hip and gently squeezes.

She pulls her tongue out, nibbling on my chin (I need to find out if she has a chin fetish), letting out a chuckle. I might have let out a disappointed whimper, because the next second Santana's lips crashes down on mine, her hands now clamp my ears, and her mouth pushes harder against me and it's like Rachel's belting out inside my head that glorious Freddie Mercury-esque Looooord—

And in that moment I know that for the first time in my life, I'm not lying to myself. I want this. I like this. I like the way her mouth tastes. I like the way our tongues meet and slide and stroke each other. I even like the way her teeth feel against the tip of my tongue.

And I want more. God, give me more.

Her lips trail moist kisses across my cheek to my ear. She closes her mouth over my earlobe, biting, nibbling, chewing, doing whatever it is that makes my toes curl and my hips raise from the bed.

"Where do you want me touch you?"

Dare she asks me that question? I am robbed of words here, and she asks me that?

"Quinn."

I swear, woman, if you don't—yesss.

Her hand wanders downward and settles itself on my ass. She squeezes, and my throat produces the longest moan even I myself have no idea I can do. Her hips press down towards my groin, and I push up. What is it against that Eve Ensler said? Oh yes. Vagina. My vagina wants a happy time so badly. Now. _Now_.

I cup her cheek. My hand must be clammy and shaking, because she turns slightly to lean against it and kiss the ball of my palm in a soothing gesture.

"Everywhere," I say hoarsely. "Touch me everywhere."

Her mouth opens against my palm, and with desire burning in her eyes, she closes it with two of my fingers inside. And whoever it is working inside my body decides to light the fuse I have to clamp my mouth over her lithe shoulder to stifle my moan. Then it's the joint between my thumb and forefinger. Then my wrist. Then my thumb. Dear fingers, are you happy now with this worshipping? You must be, because there are other parts of me that are now jealous of you.

Then her mouth is gone again.

Before I even have the chance to protest (yes, _protest_), she towers over me, half draped across my body, half straddling me. Her eyes are the most serious I've seen this whole evening.

"I don't want you to hold back," she says. "I want you to express what you feel from having sex with a woman." (As if I can ignore the way she grinds down on my thigh.) "I want you to be aware of what you are doing, of what _we_ are doing. I want you to be sure that this is what you want."

That you're saying it to yourself? That you need the reassurance that I'm not the blonde you want to be with? That I need the reassurance that I've just figured myself out and just understood why there's a pang of pain in my chest whenever I see Rachel look at Finn?

Neither of us says anything. I wind an arm around her neck, pulling her down. She grips my shoulder hard, her other hand flailing to turn off the light.

Yet I stop her hand before it reaches the night lamp.

I shake my head.

Her mouth opens then closes again. She closes her eyes. Draws a deep breath. Shivers. Opens her eyes, slowly, oh so slowly. Drops her head onto the dip between my collarbones. Laughs softly, oh so softly.

"Yeah," she breathes out. "Yeah."

If my chest is a prairie, it sure is now blooming with all the ridiculous assortment of flowers.

"Aren't you a drama queen?" I grin.

"Says one who asked me to be her date, flirted with me, and now is under me."

"Mmm. I like the view from here."

"You'll like it more, Fabray."

"Only if you stop talking and start wor—ssshit."

I can feel her grin against the valley of my breast. The tease!

But oh so talented hands! She knows when to alternate harder pressure, firm squeeze, gentle stroke, and feathery caress. Come on! Give me more! Wait—what? What! Glorious fingers, why do you stop? My breasts need your touch. Come back! You can't have my foul mouth if you don't get to stimulate my oxytoxin produce!

Then her mouth is on my breast, and I am functioning on autopilot.

In many, many years to come, I know I won't be able to erase this image from my memory: Santana's eyes on me, Santana's face on my torso, Santana's mouth on my breast, Santana's tongue on my nipple.

Santana on me.

She shifts to my side, no longer straddling me. Her other hand drifts lower, so torturously slow, skimming over the skin of my inner thighs. I part them wider. Yes, yes, yes, I want her, and I want her between my thighs.

Her body slides against mine, and she lands an open-mouthed kiss on my hip. A nip. A lick. A suckle. A bite! She kisses lower, and my face burns. I know where this is heading, and even then I'm still anxious. Will she be thorough? Will she teach me everything so I don't need to rely on a man to have pleasure? Will she make me touch myself in front of her? Oh God, this anticipation is killing me. Should I pray for an easy passing to the eternal life? Should I recite Hail Mary now?

"Your thought is too loud," she scowls as she holds me down.

"I-I can't," I gasp out. I'm serious. I'm having a visual sensory overload here. If I see what Santana is going to do down there, I'll die. I'll die even before I have my first lady sex. And she's not supposed to be my killer! "Too much—too much—I can't watch—"

There's a rustling sound, and in no time I find a blanket between us.

"If you don't wanna watch me, don't." She dives under the blanket. "Just feel."

Did she just—

_Oh_.

Nobody has ever done that for me before.

Against the burning sensation in my eyes, I grip the blanket tightly. I want to see her, _my first woman_, but I don't think I can handle more. It's too much. Too soon. But she's my best friend. We fight and harass each other, but one thing remains the same. First and foremost, she's my best friend, and I'm her home girl. She knows me.

I literally jump when she touches me there. In the one part of me that makes me a woman. The one part of me that I thought would only be touched by men. The one part of me that used to make me think I needed men to make me happy.

Her name escapes my lips, and I feel her lift her head under the blanket.

"You know, Quinn," she says, her voice dropping from her usual register, now deeper, lower, huskier. Her bed voice. Pure sex. Madness. "As lesbians, we know about vaginas." Her fingers slide under my underwear. "We touch them. We lick them. We play with them. We tease them." Her fingers part me, flesh against flesh. "We notice when the clitoris swells. We notice our own." (1)

Who the hell turns on the heater to full blast?

She takes off my underwear (goodbye, 15 bucks Victoria's Secret. You've been a great partner). Slides it down my legs. Trails her fingers down my legs. Which she follows with her mouth.

Who the hell runs the faucet of this blinding rush of heat inside me?

My mouth falls open in a wordless scream as her mouth climbs up to land on my inner thighs. This is the point of no return, isn't it? I'm putting out myself for this, and I can't back down now, can I?

Her name once again escapes my mouth, this time in a scream, as her mouth touches me in the place where nobody else's mouth has ventured before. I almost, almost throw herself off of me as I buck for more, more, more. Her leg rubs my side, which I find strangely comforting, but I notice she's still tangled in her dress. And here, under the blanket, under her mouth, I am naked. I fix this unfairness the only way I can think of: rip the dress off of her.

Which turns out to be a bad decision—because I am immediately bombarded by skin, so much expanse of skin. And ass. And legs. And the white thong between the clamped thighs.

Then her tongue swirls around my clit, and I grip her left thigh so hard I leave nail marks on her skin.

I can't see her, but from her outline under the blanket, from what I feel, from the wet, slick sound I hear—oh my Goooood.

My hand reaches her hip, trying to get in between her thighs, trying to slip the her thong aside to touch her, to do anything, anything to take my mind off of what's going on under the blanket, but her left hand takes a hold of my wrist.

And I am struck by the realization.

She _stops_ me.

As if knowing my train of thought, her voice floats from under the blanket, "This is not about me."

And then her tongue is back, licking, tasting, delving deeper, bringing me closer to the edge. Her hand leaves my wrist, and I grab it as if it's my anchor. If Santana can use her mouth to bring me to places unimaginable before, so can I. The next second, her fingers are in my mouth. There's a fleeting taste of tanginess, and my face burns even more, realizing that _it's me_.

She pulls out her fingers from my mouth, dragging them lower to my breast. I swallow what's going to be a very loud moan, or a loud groan, or a loud scream as she pinches my nipple. As her tongue thrusts into me, once, twice, thrice. As her lips move to cover my swollen clit and—_Jesusss_—

—suck.

She hums. And suckles. And laps. And flicks. And sucks even more.

Even my ears ring with the scream I let out. (Rachel will be proud of my tremulous alto, I think.) My hand covers hers over my breast, pressing it to squeeze harder, pinch harder, touch harder, and the other one unknowingly has landed itself at the back of her head, gripping and pushing and controlling.

_There!_

I double over her head. I can't breathe. Somebody, send help. Please! I. Can't Breathe. And I begin to panic. Is this normal? Am I having my gay panic now? Does this happen every time one has lesbian sex? How do I tell Santana all these shit?

Then her head appears as the blanket slides over her shoulder, and she grins. With her lips still wet from me. With her hair still messy and unruly all over my fingers. With her brilliant eyes that say she's been nothing but my best friend.

"I got you."

I blink.

Her grin softens into a familiar smile.

This time, it is I who seek her lips like a stranded fish dying for water. Lips on lips. Mouth on mouth. I don't even care that our teeth knock against each other's. Gripping her head still with both hands, I taste me, and her mouth, and our combination, and I moanbreathethankher into her mouth.

Eventually, I let go of her and fall back onto the pillow, blanket clutched against my chest.

"Oh wow," Santana whispers, still dazed by the kiss—and I'm so proud of that. "I can live with that kind of kiss."

I burst out laughing, and I still am even when Santana pulls at the sheet to cover herself and hands me a bottle of water she gets from the small fridge under her night table.

"Another important lesson," she says, waving a finger at me, "is to stay hydrated."

Why yes, I don't even know I'm thirsty until I gulp down half of the bottle. The sex is _that_ good, eh, Fabray?

I ponder over that for a moment. Good, eh? Well. Now this is real sex. One where I laugh afterward. Where I feel good. Joyous. Liberated. And I choose this myself. I choose this.

I choose me.

"Earth to Quinn? Hello?"

Santana's still there, supporting her head with a hand, toes softly rubbing the side of my breast. For some reasons, it comforts me, reassuring me of her presence.

"So that's why college girls experiment."

She laughs. "And thank God they do."

I exhale, looking at the ceiling. My left leg feels a bit asleep—good grief, I really need to exercise. Or have more sex. Well, the second seems more enjoyable. "You know, it was fun. And I've always wondered what it would be like to be with a woman."

She raises her eyebrows.

I turn my head to look at her. "But I think for me it was more of a one-time thing."

She shrugs, donning that sexy smirk that makes panties gone. "You don't have to worry. I'm not going to show up at your house with a U-haul."

I reach for my bottle again. Santana makes it sound so easy, and I can't say I'm not tempted. Right? I'm only human, after all. A woman who no longer needs to live up to her father's expectation. Or to pin after someone who never listens. Chuckling lightly, I uncapped my bottle. "So what happens next?"

"Well," she drawls, "you could walk out first."

My mouth hovers over the lid of the bottle, considering. Is she this considerate with her other lovers? Or is it only with me?

"Or we could make it a two-time thing."

God bless this woman for making loving fun, right, Christine McVie? (2)

Santana's smirk widens.

Dear water, thank you for keeping me alive, but now I have a bigger priority to attend.

I can't help the smile on my face either as I put down the capped bottle on my night table. Thank those years of Coach Sylvester's Spartan training that enable me to recover fast—and move equally fast.

"Whoa." Santana holds me as I lunge at her and land messily half on top of her. "Easy there, lioness."

Laughing, I rest my forehead on her bare shoulder. With a finger, I pull down the sheet that covers her chest, not stopping until I touch her stomach. I think I smile more today than I did in the last four years. "I'd like that," I say, my fingers trailing upward to the underside of her right breast. God, how does one stop from wanting to touch, huh? Huh? "And this time, get inside me."

A low moan resonates from her throat. "Don't tell me I turn you into a nymph."

I laugh against her collarbone, suckling softly and getting my reward as she moans louder. "I haven't seen it, San. I haven't seen how you get inside a woman. How many fingers? How deep? How will it feel?" My fingers circle her nipple, and she sucks in a deep breath. "Show me."

She growls. And it's the sexiest growl I've ever heard from men and women alike. And I'm wet all over again. And I want her all over again.

I take hold of her left hand—her dominant hand, bringing it down to where I want her most. "How do _you_ feel inside me?"

"_You_ tell me."

Her fingers glide easily through my wetness. She scoots lower until her mouth is back on one of my nipples, and I hold her head so close to me I think I'm going to suffocate her with my breasts. I groan aloud when the tip of her middle finger grazes my opening, then up to my clit, then down again. I throw a leg over hers, straddling her. My knee meets her center, and even through the thong I can feel how wet she is. My considerate lover, so inconsiderate of herself. She nips my nipple a little rougher, and the jolt of pleasure makes me push down harder onto her fingers. Come on, San. Come on. Don't make me whine.

"I'm waiting here."

"You told me I'm your home girl," I say. "And you're my first woman."

With that, she enters me with a finger to the first knuckle. My mouth hangs open wordlessly. Hot. So hot. I can feel invisible fire licks its way up my face.

"Fuck, Quinn. When was the last time you had sex, really?"

I tighten my arms around her neck. "Five minutes ago?"

She pushes more, and her whole finger is in me. I don't dare to look down and risk my sanity.

"Another?"

"Another," I replies, breathless and aroused beyond logic.

My scream is muffled against her hair as she presses inside me with another finger. Two, now. Oh my God. Not even in wildest dream I imagined having fingers in me—not even mine.

Then Santana starts to pull her fingers out, and pushes them back in. Her rhythm is slow and tempered, and I adjust to having her inside me, to the feeling and sensation and experience of having her inside me. My flesh clamps on her fingers when she pulls out and stretches when she presses back inside. It's a slow burn. Too slow. Not enough.

So I bring my hand to cover hers, giving it a gentle pressure. "Harder," I say, pressing down on her fingers, thus forcing her fingers deeper inside me. "I can't come just from this." My thumb finds hers, and I guide it to my clit. And Lord Jesus—sparks. I feel electric sparks, threatening to burst out from my whole body. "There. _There_."

She lets go of my breast, and her lips find the juncture between my shoulder and neck. She pushes my hair to one side, and I tilt my head to give her more space. Even her lips burn. Even the low chuckles that rumble from her throat burn. She burns me everywhere. Hotter, hotter, hotter.

She moans my name, prolonging the n in the coda of it. And it hits me that she's humping my knee. If I haven't combust by now, I'm sure I will in no time.

My elbows are digging onto her shoulders as I clutch at her, and she laps at my collarbone. Her thumb on my clit is rubbing faster, and her fingers inside me are relentless—I love them, I love them, I love them! God!

I spill all over her hand, all over her thigh, all over her.

Santana arches her back as she pushes against my knee one last time and comes. My God, she's beautiful when she comes—all taut muscle on her neck, arched back, straining biceps. Is it normal for a woman to be beautiful when having an orgasm? Or is it only reserved for lesbians? Or only Santana?

We stumble backward as we get down from the high. Me, on top of her. Her, pressed down to the bed by my weight. I'm out of breath, and if she moves the fingers that are still inside me, I'll pass out. For real.

Then she laughs, breathless and hoarse and all. "Jesus fucking Christ, Q." She pulls her fingers out, bringing them between our faces. Her tongue comes out to take a small lick. At my groan, she licks them clean, but not before saying, "A two-time thing indeed."

"Jesus fucking Christ," I imitate her, pulling her hand away and pulling her into a sloppy open-mouthed kiss, and the best thing about it is that we laugh into the kiss.

All the way into the kiss.

Oh, and the awkward post post-sex? Never happens, my friends.

We simply roll off each other, take a short nap, shower together (and bitch has the nerve to tickle me again), and get dressed. I help her into her dress, stealing a random kiss here and there. She straightens so I can zip her up—fabulous dress she has, yes. She turns around to face me, pulling me into a loose hug, and I wind my arms around her waist.

It all comes around to a slow dance, really.

"She told me forever," she says, sighing onto my shoulder and I don't have to guess who she's talking about.

"And I never told her," I say, and somehow I know she knows she doesn't have to guess who I'm talking about.

"Are you gonna tell her?"

"I don't know. Maybe when I'm eighty and grey and dying."

She chuckles. "Aren't we fucked up?"

"Maybe. A little. Or something." I kiss her temple. "Yeah."

She's quiet for a while. "So," she starts.

"So," I say.

"Will you stop copying me and use your Yale brain to come up with something original?"

I laugh a little. "I like your mouth better when it's not lashing out insults." I pull back, looking at her in the eye. I offer my hand for a handshake. "I've had a great time, experiment or not."

Her eyes narrow, but she smiles nevertheless when she shakes my hand. "I'm glad you didn't break out in a gay panic."

"I guess it's easier because you're with me."

"You'll have every lady go gay for Fabray." She looks at our entwined hand. "I'm happy that you're happy, Q, slapfest or not."

I look at our entwined hands, softly rubbing my thumb over the back of her palm. "This is me, kissing you goodbye." She smiles sympathetically, and I smile in return. Then I raise my head, grinning. "And this is me, too, hoping there will be another time to say hello, U-haul or not."

The way that very big smile breaks on Santana's face?

Worth a million times she calls me a sap.

-.-.-.-

Note:

(1) From Eve Ensler's _The Vagina Monologues_, Part "The women who loved to make vaginas happy." And fun fact: the foreword to _TVM_ was written by Gloria Steinem. Need I say more?

(2) Christine McVie is a former member of Fleetwood Mac. Among her famous songs, she penned _You Make Loving Fun_ and _Songbird_. Fleetwood Mac is my favorite band, and though _Rumour_ is a pretty decent episode, I still can't forgive _Glee_ for ruining Mac's songs.


End file.
